


steal this moment with me

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs in a Car, Car Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post Episode Prompto, Sex in a Car, Shameless Smut, happy birthday Prompto Argentum, identity feels, literally a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: They've been fighting through MTs for days.Surely Prompto and Noctis deserve some kind of reprieve.





	steal this moment with me

**Author's Note:**

> Since I only got into FFXV fandom at the end of September 2017, I've missed all the Chocobros' birthdays -- but here is the bright and notable exception, dear lionheart chocobo-hair Prompto.
> 
> So this fic is posted for his birthday, 25 October :)
> 
> Thanks to Johanirae for the impetus for this one!

The silence in the Regalia is even colder than the rain outside, and that’s really saying something, Prompto thinks.

Really saying something for this very, very, very late stage of the journey.

Nothing to be heard except the low and tightly-controlled breaths coming from Ignis, who hasn’t even trusted himself to get into the driver’s seat. Except for the drip of water from Gladio’s hair, onto his bared shoulders and the leather of the back seat. Except for Noctis’s hands in their arrhythmic clench and unclench on the steering wheel.

He’s long since perfected the art of jittering his own knee without making a sound -- not the strike of his boot heel on the floor, not the ring of the chains he wears snaking out of his pockets.

Before them is -- an utter rain-blasted storm-slashed wasteland, and that doesn’t even take into consideration the stink and the spreading grease, the scorched debris of metal, the ash of charred daemons piled onto the reek of burnt armor and machinery.

“Can we please leave,” Ignis mutters, at last.

Prompto holds on very carefully to the seat belt buckle and the door of the shotgun seat.

And Noctis snarls, low and wordless and exhausted and still vitally, thoroughly angry, and throws the Regalia into gear, and the engine’s roar is a welcome blast of sound -- it washes through Prompto’s mind, drowns out the clamor of his thoughts and his fears, drowns out the memory of seeing the faces that were not his own, rank on rank behind the masks of MTs marching.

He reluctantly closes his eyes so he can better lose himself in this place and time where only he exists, himself and recognized as himself, by three others -- the only three people in the world right now, as far as he’s concerned, as far as his own eyes and his own mind can see.

And he could almost mourn when Noctis finds the delicacy to bring the journey to a smooth coasting end.

But they are looking at a cabin, and the only thing ramshackle about it is its peeling roof.

Bright blue glow of active wards on the walls, on the mud-sloshed ground, on the tall worn rocks braced up against the front door.

The doors in the back of the car slam open, slam closed.

The shapes of Gladio and Ignis, tracing bent-shouldered pained paths toward the cabin, and disappearing inside.

Still he’s in here, in the silence of the wash of the pouring rain, and still Noctis is rigid in the driver’s seat.

Prompto watches, silently anguished and pinned down by that anguish, as Noctis half-falls forward, his forehead coming to rest on the steering wheel.

He’s reaching out, he’s trying to shape Noctis’s name, he’s fighting past the fear that still claws at the edges of his mind -- 

And Noctis lets out a short harsh bark of a laugh.

“I didn’t just kill -- lots and lots of you, did I?”

The sob escapes Prompto even before he can think of catching it and controlling it and curbing it.

But he manages to bridge the gap between him and Noctis: his hand, shaking, wraps around Noctis’s wrist seemingly of its own volition, and he can’t pry himself loose, can’t make himself let go, and now Noctis’s free hand is seizing him in a fearful grip so now he’s really trapped and he can’t think of anywhere else he wants to be, anywhere else he needs to be.

“You, Prompto. You’re here. You’re _you_. And all those things -- ”

“All those others,” he corrects, as gently as he can, as firmly as he dares. “All those others. Maybe they weren’t humans anymore.” He’s hoping. He’s wishing. Those dead red lights in place of eyes, those metallic skull-grins. “But they weren’t daemons. They were -- destroyed by Niflheim. Just as I almost was. The difference is, you guys got me out.”

“Ignis is right,” Noctis says, suddenly.

Prompto blinks at him.

And Noctis finally, finally, looks over at him.

Prompto has learned by now that there are many, many currents of deep molten rage running through Noctis: he can’t hope to count them all, and he can’t hope to find them all. He can only try to catch up after they’ve been past him -- and that’s the gift, he thinks, that’s the secret of loving Noctis, to understand that rage. It’s not a personal rage or a destructive rage, most of the time, and he can almost see it in the glittering edges of the blades in the Armiger: he can see that Noctis’s rage exists for the sake of others, that it flames and flares for the greater good. 

No wonder Noctis needs to sleep all the time, no wonder he looks so lackadaisically at the world, because he’d be consumed by all that rage otherwise, and the facade of apathy, the silence of sleep, these are the only places where he can recollect himself and be himself, and stand aside from the rage that would consume him -- consume him as though he were its tender and cherished child.

So it’s a surprise when a flicker of that rage burns in Noctis’s eyes, here and now, in the Regalia, in the storm.

Prompto feels himself go almost evasive: he just barely stops himself from drawing a weapon.

He hitches a smile onto his face instead. “Not gonna apologize for what I said. But if I hurt your feelings -- ”

“Stop right there,” Noctis says.

Prompto’s teeth click shut.

But he meets Noctis stare for stare.

Meets that rage with the pain that he carries in his heart for all the others they’ve left in their wake, tonight and on all the other nights and days and hours of this road trip through far too many hells than should really exist.

He doesn’t cry. He does let his mouth pinch closed.

“Prompto.”

He lifts his chin a little higher. “Noct.”

And it’s Noctis who looks away, after a very short moment that feels like infinity. 

Ghost of his laugh, sharp around the edges with tears, shivering in the cool air. 

Prompto stares at the smile that touches the Prince’s lips, strangely sweet, and only there for a moment.

“Ignis says,” and Noctis looks like he’s trying to be very careful with his words, which is so not like him at all, “Ignis says that you keep your fatal flaw front and center, so no one can ever attack you with it.”

“What?”

What the hell is he saying?

His hand tightens around Noctis’s wrist, and he wants to let go and he can’t, because Noctis is trapping him there.

No, not trapping him.

Holding him, pulling him close, even over the obstacle of the console and the gearshift between them.

And Noctis’s kiss tastes of rain and of ash and of _him_. Gentle and warm.

Prompto can’t help but groan, and close his eyes, and lean in a little more. Can’t help but open his mouth and coax Noctis’s open -- there’s a brief brush of tongues, and Prompto shivers, tries to get more -- 

“You gotta let me say it before I lose all my nerve,” Noctis is saying, and now Prompto really is being held _away_. Noctis’s arms at full extension, gently holding on to his bare arms.

“So -- you’re not trying to insult me? You or Ignis?”

Regret flashes through Prompto when Noctis sighs. “You’d think you knew us by now. No, Prom, we’re trying to tell you something we know about you. We’re trying to tell you that -- you’re important because you care. Because we see that you care, and that you’re hurt by the things that we need to do, and you don’t stop doing them anyway.”

Noctis’s hand traces over Prompto’s cuffed wrist.

“You care,” Noctis says again. “You care. And believe me, there’s nothing more important in this world. I wouldn’t be able to do any of this,” and he motions to his right hand, “if I didn’t care. Ignis and Gladio, you know what they do and how they feel. And then there’s you, because you care, and you don’t even see that that’s a good thing. You actually forget it’s a good thing. But you speak up for -- the ones whom we’ve left. You fight for the ones who might still get out alive. Including them. Including me.

“And Ignis is right: you’re just as strong as any of us.”

“Oh.” Prompto blinks, and the world -- the small expanse of it, here in the front seats of this car -- blurs into astonished tears.

“Oh, he says,” Noctis half-laughs.

Here are Noctis’s stained fingers on his skin.

Here is Noctis’s mouth brushing against his cheeks.

“I don’t know how I learned to be kind,” he finally hears himself say.

“And that’s the part I can’t understand,” Noctis says. “You have kindness and you don’t know where you got it. I -- grew up in kindness and sometimes I have to remember where to find it.”

“You need me around,” Prompto says, only meaning to make a joke, and not a well-thought-out one at that.

But in response, Noctis’s eyes go wide and bright and hot.

“I really really do,” he says.

And Prompto is watching him climb into the back seat of the Regalia, somehow managing to slither over despite the real lack of space for him to do so, and yes, Noctis almost gets him with his elbow, with his knee, but -- there he is, out of the driver’s seat, looking far too proud of himself.

He gets out of the car the usual way: door out, door in.

Here is Noctis, eyes bright with more than tears, and Prompto, helplessly, leans in and kisses the corner of one bright eye, and then the other.

Two kisses, that he chases, that he desperately craves, that he needs more than life itself, and he groans Noctis’s name, softly. “I -- you know you can tell me to stop,” he says.

“Nope,” is the almost cheerful reply.

He loses himself in the details of kissing Noctis, grows lightheaded drunk on the encouraging little noises that escape Noctis whenever they can bear to snatch a breath away, only to dive in headlong once again, kissing and kissing, burning higher and higher with each touch -- 

Oh, touch, right -- he can’t start when he feels Noctis’s hands pull at his shirt, because he’s also trying to get to Noctis’s bare skin. Flecks of ash pulling and crumbling across Noctis’s arms, over Noctis’s chest, and Prompto hisses softly into Noctis’s mouth when his thumbs ghost across hard-peaked nipples.

“Go on,” Noctis laughs, half-strangled, and Prompto needs to feel him, needs to touch him: he runs his tongue down, over a hard swallow and the jut of collar bones. Down to the crook of an elbow, down to the high hot heat over the dark veins in a wrist -- he licks at Noctis’s fingers, one after the other, drowning in the salt of his skin.

“Too many clothes,” he hears Noctis mutter, as if from very far away.

That’s a good idea, too, he thinks, and he sits up and there’s a brief flash of pain in the back of his head -- he dimly registers that he’s hit the glass of the window, and Noctis is laughing, and reaching out to him, and the reward is being cradled to Noctis’s chest, to hear the thunder of that heartbeat so close, drowning him out.

He takes a deep breath.

Turns his head and lays a quiet kiss over Noctis’s heart.

The hand in his hair tightens, and he arches into the brief bright welcome flash of pain.

“You really have no idea, do you?”

He blinks, and looks up.

Noctis’s mouth, still open in the wake of his question: that kiss-burnished mouth. The color in his cheeks, still high and persistent. Eyelashes and mussed hair, casting messy swirling shadows on his skin.

“See, you’re staring at me like that, when I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

The old instincts rise in Prompto, to brush the words away, to deflect them.

But: he sits up instead, and he pulls Noctis into his lap.

And he kisses Noctis, and says, “Then don’t.”

Noctis doesn’t laugh like he’s expecting him to.

Noctis smiles, slow and growing and breathtaking, and he leans in -- Prompto closes his eyes, and expects a kiss, and he gets brushing teasing flicks instead, Noctis touching him all over his face and then it suddenly hits him: “My freckles?”

“Yeah.”

Down. Rough fingertips, gentle, and Prompto gulps, and desire chokes him on its thorns, and something else, something deeper, winds him in silken cords.

Noctis is tracing shapes on him, imaginary constellations on his body, and every movement of those hands on his skin makes him shiver, makes his heart run rapidfire riot in his chest, and he wants to touch him in return -- but when he reaches out to Noctis’s shoulder, he gets a small grin, and a shake of the head.

“Come on, Noct,” he says, he doesn’t whine.

“You gave me permission to touch,” is the soft reply. “I’m going to take advantage, until you tell me to stop.”

“I _don’t_ want you to stop -- but I want to touch you too.”

“All right,” Noctis says.

Those hands guiding his: Prompto sifts the fine dark strands of Noctis’s hair through his fingers.

And Noctis is still touching him.

Still going lower and lower.

He jumps, a little, when Noctis kisses his hip -- bending himself almost in double to do it, and it makes the muscles in his back stand out, but still. “Noct.”

“Even if it takes you a long time to get used to me here,” Noctis whispers against the silver stretch marks in his skin, “I’m still going to do this.”

“This” being the scatter of kisses he leaves in his wake.

Prompto makes himself swallow the protest in his throat.

Makes himself keep watching Noctis.

Who slithers to get down on his knees and says, “I like looking up at you,” and laughs softly.

“That makes two of us.”

“Well you’re already there and I’m already here,” Noctis says.

“And what are you going to do about it,” Prompto hears himself say.

Those eyes darken, sharpen, homing in on him, and he’s not afraid.

He’s pinned on Noctis’s gaze -- which he meets with a forthright air of his own.

It’s not surprising, not really, when Noctis begins by kissing his knees -- one and then the other.

The jolt comes from the way he closes his eyes, and opens his mouth to lick a wet line inwards. Right, then left, and then -- a little way up, and Prompto feels the shiver run through his very bones when Noctis noses up to his belly button, lingering around it.

The sound he makes is not one he can explain even to himself.

It’s a relief, that shudders sweet and heavy in him, when Noctis finally touches his cock: relief that whirls and disappears into the insidious twist of lust, when Noctis carefully takes him into his mouth.

He can’t help but throw his head back, and he loses sight of Noctis that way, but the need that spears through him lets him know and feel everything else: the movement of Noctis’s mouth and throat and tongue around him. The firm brace of Noctis’s hand, curved around the base of his cock. The soft sounds of Noctis, eager, greedy, obscene, and so good. The way he almost chokes, the way he catches a difficult breath, only to take him in, more and more until Prompto has to scream, has to consciously pull himself back from the edge of his climax because he wants, he wants, he’s nothing but the want -- 

They’ve done this before, and it’s good every time, and no time is like this.

Prompto has to stop himself from pulling even harder on dark hair, that’s not the kind of pain he wants for either of them -- 

But he’s reduced to his own helpless whimpers, his own unsteady breaths, as again and again Noctis tears him apart, throwing him again and again just to the very hair’s-breadth before orgasm only to snatch it away, only to leave him keening and witless and undone -- 

It’s on another one of those thwarted highs that he looks down, that he gathers himself just enough to understand what he’s looking at:

Noctis’s hand, the one that had been wrapped around Prompto’s leg, now -- gone lower.

Noctis’s hand, stroking his own hard length again and again, starting and then stopping, in the same sloppy irregular rhythm he’d been applying vigorously to Prompto -- 

“What -- ” The word comes out as a croak, first, and then he has to swallow, has to try again. “What are you doing?”

The deep gasp as Noctis releases him from his mouth and his throat is oddly, beautifully gratifying.

As is the telltale rasp of his voice:

“I just wanted to make it good for you.”

Prompto blinks, speechless.

“Guess I’ll continue?” Noctis asks with a sly sharp grin.

“Fuck,” is all Prompto can think to say.

“That’s what I want,” Noctis says, before going down on him again.

This time Prompto does sob, nearly overwhelmed, as he fucks up into Noctis’s willing mouth, little uncontrollable jerks of his hips that make him hit the back of Noctis’s throat over and over again -- the groan that escapes Noctis somehow, and his hand speeding up on his own cock -- 

This time Prompto doesn’t have to hold back, isn’t being forced to hold back, and this time when his orgasm yanks at him Noctis doesn’t pull him away -- 

Bright shock, wild white flare of pleasure consuming his mind, and he thinks he cries, a little, when Noctis groans out his name, groans out his own release.

Prompto slumps over, at last, when the shivers leave him limp and fulfilled, and he leans over Noctis, and clings to his shoulders. “You,” he begins, and words fail him.

“Right back at you,” is the response, on a weak laugh.

He has the presence of mind to open the door he’s sitting next to, so the smell of sex and sweat can rush out of the overheated interior of the Regalia.

Fresh air rushing in, cool scent of rain on stones.

He kisses Noctis, and leans into Noctis’s kiss, and holds on for his heart, for Noctis’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
